The large man sits, holding a gun in one hand, and trying to stop the flow of blood from his stomach with the other.
You can tell a lot about a man by the way he shoots. I may have shot low…but I’m a man who always shoots true, whether I mean to or not.
His friend, named Carpenter, lay at his feet with an unbroken mug of beer.
I thought I was aiming at the glass…
His broad shoulders slump and he closes his eyes.
My good friend Talbot shot me though…ah…I deserved it…ain’t goin’ to deny that.
He takes a long drink of his whiskey and stares out the window.
Mike has a bad reputation amongst most people, but his few friends only have nice things to say.
He’s a fighter. A brawler, is more apt. Always ready for a punch-up.
Yeah, I like to fight…I put a little red feather in my hat every time I win.
His knuckles are big, jagged. His nose is bent and his smile lopsided.
Some revere him as a great American Hero. Stories from when he was a scout, when he was working the river boats, the time he stole a bunch of sheep.
This man may have been great, once upon a time.
Now he sits here, whiskey-drunk, punch-drunk and a murderer, shot by his own friend.
If you think I’m anything less than an American hero, boy, look again. I’m one hundred percent American through and through. Mind, body, and actions.